


Strands as Thin as Cobweb

by wyvernwood



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernwood/pseuds/wyvernwood
Summary: Finch is sick during an op at a ski lodge.





	Strands as Thin as Cobweb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).

> Inspired by Blue Streak by the recipient.
> 
> Conceived as a sort of sequel to that story.

It was cold outside, snowing, and hot in the room. He felt hotter than the room really was. His fever -- he thought he had a fever -- wasn't making him shiver like fevers usually did, so maybe it wasn't one. The nausea came in waves, and right now was a trough between them. 

He was determined not to throw up. There wasn't anything left in his stomach, anyway. His throat burned and when he tried to stand he felt like he was going to fall.

None of this was anything he had time for. Out there in the snow was a doctor he had come here to save, so that doctor could help save more lives, and he couldn't even sit up. He curled around the laptop and tried not to wince when looking at the screen at such an odd angle made pain stab through his skull between his eyes. 

Fusco and Reese might need information from him at any moment. 

A sip of water might be good. Dehydration was the worst risk of this kind of illness. He took two sips, and that was a mistake. The waves peaked again over him and he choked on the water coming back up, barely managing not to let it hit the laptop. Would have shorted it out. The bed had a wet spot, now. He shifted a few inches to keep off it.

There had been shooting, earlier. He'd heard it. Reese had made contact with Fusco, they'd seen the shooters from overhead, hadn't been able to make an ID. 

The door to the room opened. "I raided the first aid station," Reese said. 

He tried to answer, but his voice wasn't cooperating.

"Looks like I need to raid the linens next." 

He thought Reese left then, but if he had, he wasn't gone for long. He heard the door closing again. Better not to open his eyes. He felt light and tenuous, as though he were connected to himself by strands as thin as cobweb. 

Reese lifted him for a moment to remove the soiled sheet he lay on. First just his legs, then briefly his whole body. Reese had warm, strong hands. 

Under the sheets was a softer, warmer covering, a mattress pad made of synthetic fabric. He didn't want to lie on this too long, though he didn't think he was ready to move, either. 

No problem there; Reese lifted him again and then there was a cool, fresh cotton sheet under him. He pressed his face against it, the coolness felt good. 

"You're cold, Finch," Reese said. 

He managed to speak now, hoarsely. "Thought I had a fever."

"I'd be surprised if you're even ninety-five. I'll get a thermometer." 

He was expecting the old fashioned kind that went into his mouth, but Reese laid something on his forehead. "Ninety-three. That's low." 

"I feel hot." 

"Still have nausea?"

"Can't even keep water down," he admitted. 

"All right." Reese rattled the first aid kit, then there was a rustling plastic sound of him opening something. "One of these should take care of it. Sorry about the indignity." 

He wasn't sure what Reese meant, but then he felt Reese carefully turn him on his stomach and slide the waistband of his pants down. He felt warm hands cupping his ass and separating the cheeks. He supposed he should be feeling indignant at that, but he was too sick and it seemed comforting somehow instead.

"Prochlorperazine," Reese said. His fingers were gentle as he slowly pushed the suppository in. "Pretty fast acting. You should be able to keep water down in half an hour. Can cause drowsiness. Don't operate any heavy machinery."

"You're reading me the warning label?" It was already easier to talk. Power of suggestion; no way the medicine worked that fast.

"Can you roll over?"

He could and did. Reese put one hand across his forehead. The palm felt almost hot and it was blocking headaches from getting in. Nonsense, but he was sure anyway. Reese's other hand began to make unusual motions across his stomach: light taps, small fingertip circles, once a soft pinch. "What are you doing?"

"Massage therapy. I forget what it's called. Like acupressure but lighter - there's nerve plexus points. Gets rid of nausea."

"I thought the medication was doing that."

"This will help it along." The tips of Reese's fingers stroked four parallel lines across his abdomen. It did feel like there was some sort of energy following the touch. Complete nonsense. It felt good and he didn't care that it was unscientific superstition, he gave up thinking and sank into the sensation. 

He almost didn't feel sick. Sure, the back of his throat felt like it was on fire. Sure, his ears felt clogged and his legs, uncomfortable at the best of times, ached down to the bone. But he was feeling better and soon, he thought, he'd be able to get up and do his job again. He had to…

"Mr. Reese. Have you forgotten about Dr. Kermani?"

"He's fine, Finch. Fusco's with him. Shh."

Mission successful, somehow. He fell asleep with Reese still slowly rubbing his belly. 

When he woke it was still dark. He was thirsty. Standing up, he managed to get to the bathroom, drink a glass of water, and back to bed. He wondered if the whole visit by Reese had been a dream. It seemed too real to be, but also too fantastical to have been real. Things like that were hard to tell when you had a fever. 

Easy enough to find out. He cued up the computer to the security cameras that the Machine would've been using to watch his room. Go back. Nothing. None of it showed at all. The whole night it had him lying basically in the same position he'd woke up in. No vomiting, no Reese changing his sheet, none of -- the other stuff he remembered. 

Someone had edited the record. Put a copy of the last hour or so of the night over the whole thing. Now that he knew, he could spot the splices.

No way to know for sure, then. He could ask Reese. But…. imagine asking Reese that if it hadn't happened. No, he wasn't going to. Better to let it lie.


End file.
